— Pushpa MacFarlane
In the kitchen, content at the counter, rocking
a chef’s knife along neatly arranged pink
and green stems, watching them go to pieces
as they crumble on the cutting block,
my left hand inching down the board till my fingers
bunch over tight curled leaves of near-wilting kale.
I’m slicing thin slivers of concentric green.
Dark unfurled leaves, loosening their hold
fall like ringlets, against the stained wooden board.
How peaceful to be so focused in creating a simple
meal of sautéed kale with minced green chilies
and garlic cloves, a pinch of cumin seeds—and soup,
creamed leek and potato—perhaps some bread
roughly torn off the loaf to dunk into steaming soup,
All it needs is a dash of pepper freshly ground,
and a soupçon of wishful thinking, that someone
will be waiting at the table to share my simple meal.